Without A White Light
by K3RR W33ZY
Summary: Murdoc heaves his seemingly last breaths on Plastic Beach. Oneshot.


-1The sun was beating down upon the shores of Plastic Beach with such a vigor and aggression that surely one would think it would melt the dross, the plastic, the metal, the chemicals, that composed its sand-less coastline. However, despite the overbearing heat, humidity, and desperation of the ozone to keep out the damaging UV rays of that great ball of fire, a lone figure claws his way across the beach to the sludge solution of the ocean.

He's panting, his green skin glazed over with sweat, his yellow eyes unfocused and blinking without synchronization. It seems that death has finally cast its ominous shadow over Murdoc Niccals. I mean, it's not like he was surprised or anything. God had to notice how much an arse he was and do something about it. Murdoc let out a gasp that was something like a laugh as he collapsed off of his forearms and fell to the ground. He was laughing at himself, how pitiful.

The days building up until now kind of gave Murdoc the hints that life would soon leave him and that he wouldn't be enjoy the "pleasure" of rewarding breathing anymore. The booze was gone, had been gone for a long time. The only thing that seemed to be left anymore was tea. …Tea. He may have been a good Englishman but tea was always something that simply repulsed him. Aside from the booze he'd listened to every Black Sabbath cassette that was in existence at least a hundred times each. The voices of Ozzy Osborne and Dio had faded off the magnetic strips in the plastic casing, some of them had even exploded. The intestines of dozens of tapes littered Murdoc's now abandoned Master Bedroom. The past couple days, as his sanity waned, he had taken to sleeping in the floor of the lift. He would hotwire it so that it would go up and down the floors continuously all day and night. He would pray that maybe it would get stuck in between floors and trap him there; just for something to do.

If he was so miserable why didn't he just go back to shore? There was a very simple explanation for that really. Russel, the oversized drummer that Murdoc had pointedly left out of his plans for the new album, had finally come to rescue 2D. This time Russel was about as large as a jumbo jet or freight train and could easily bat Murdoc away with a wave of his gigantic fist. Russel plunged into the ocean and destroyed the whale that was there to guard 2D in the basement. The giant of a man threw the sea beast over his head as if it was made of marshmallows. He grabbed 2D in one fist and crushed the Noodle Cyborg in the other. He gave a fleeting look of sheer anger and disgust in Murdoc's direction as he took Stylo back to the shore, humanity, sanity, civilization.

Murdoc's chest burned as he heaved another few breaths. He heaved himself back onto his forearms and tried to move just a few inches further. Each movement and shift in his weight shot electrical sparks of pain up and down his spine. He tried to bite his lip and dig his nails into the palm of his hand to ignore the pain. If he could just make it a little bit further he could let the grimy ocean carry him away, cool him off, and hopefully drown him sooner rather than later. Just a little bit…further.

But he couldn't, he'd become paralyzed from pain. He had so much sweat all over his skin that he was actually cold. He shivered and tried to shake this pain for just a few more inches. A few more inches would make it all clear, dreamy, lovely, and make sense. Murdoc lay back down and ground his nose against the stone shore. It didn't affect him, considering the thing had been broken around eight times or so. Murdoc just wished some type of pain would wash over him and finally take him away. He couldn't take this anymore.

Just as he thought that he could see some type of white light in his vision he felt a pressure on his forearm through all the sweat and pulsing going on in and around his body. He opened one eye with a lot of difficulty to see a barefoot, cut open and bleeding by the glass littering and composing the shore. A wave of nausea washed over Murdoc as he thought a dead body had washed ashore to lay next to him in death. He studied it a little further to discover that the foot was standing and curling its toes in and out. A voice accompanied the toes from above his head.

"Murdoc? Murdoc-sama?"

He knew that voice from anywhere, far away or near. Whether it was trapped in hell or playing guitar for him in his band.

"Noodle?"

"Murdoc."

-Fin.-


End file.
